


Numbers Aren't Right

by recrudescence



Category: Inception
Genre: Dubious Consent, Kink, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-27
Updated: 2010-07-27
Packaged: 2017-10-10 20:10:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/103795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/recrudescence/pseuds/recrudescence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sampling a new compound has never, ever caused Arthur to do anything as rash as waking up and declaring, "Your lips were made for fellatio."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Numbers Aren't Right

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a prompt from the Inception kink meme dictating an urgent need for Eames and his mouth to take center stage.

  
Yusuf hates him.

He must.

Yusuf hates him and Arthur doesn't know why. It's the only explanation that occurs to his overwhelmed mind. Sampling a new compound has never, ever caused him to do anything as rash as waking up and declaring,"Your lips were made for fellatio," and, despite only being milliseconds out of his dream, Arthur knows this is almost certainly never a good thing.

Even though it's only Eames—_especially_ because it's only Eames—there. Eames with his brashness and his incisiveness and that _mouth_, always a heartbeat away from smirking no matter the situation, even when Arthur _isn't_ serving him up excuses on silver platters. Plush, full, indolent lips curving into a smile, smug and lazy and unfairly handsome.

And even jolting up out of sleep, the first thing Arthur says to that is, "My God, if you weren't infuriating beyond belief, I'd fuck you in a heartbeat."

It's such a surreal moment, he almost forgets to be mortified.

Eames merely crosses his legs, leans back in his chair, and doesn't so much as blink. "By all means, continue."

He marks his book by creasing a page. Typical. Arthur doesn't approve, also typical. Metal easing from his arm, Eames setting the briefcase to rights, and Arthur tries to compose himself. His jacket is folded over the back of the chair even though he doesn't remember doing it, but it won't wrinkle at least and it really is almost unreasonably warm in here.

"You..." He wants to bite back the words, to stand and walk away, but Eames's eyes are on him, searing. "I need you to..." His body thrums like a tuning fork, like a bone-deep fever. His clothes all feel far too constricting and the only response he can focus enough to utter is embarrassingly plaintive. "Leave me alone, please, just leave me alone."

Words like a caress, melting over his skin, making his eyes flit closed-open and his head fall back: "What in the world were you dreaming about?" As if Eames isn't so strapped of morals that he wouldn't risk slipping in to see for himself, then slip right back out. And since Arthur can't seem to hold back words, he voices this opinion out loud.

Eames is tsk-tsking at him, then, reaching to help him up, and Arthur allows it even though that one small touch makes his mind whirl and his skin ache for something bigger and he'd been dreaming, sharp and sure, about being touched in such a different way. "What kind of colleague would I be?" It's amazing how Eames manages to sound almost genuinely offended. "And what was your dream, did you say?"

"I don't want to say," pettishly.

"But I _do_ want you to say." Honeyed, dark-edged, deliberate. Each syllable matching the movement of his body as he stretches, fingers locking over his head, back a languorous arch, and then leans in.

His hands are on the edge of the table, effectively bracketing Arthur where he's slumped against it, and his eyes are unrelenting but surprisingly soft. Almost sympathetic. "Go on, now."

Arthur laughs, sounding brittle in his own ringing ears. "I was...you were..." He must still be dreaming, somehow, that's the only satisfactory solution for this apparent regression to pubescent states of agony. Face blazing, nipples hard against the cotton of his undershirt, and every minute movement renders him even more useless via its amplification. He might as well be thirteen and hiding a hard-on under his biology book again. "You must have been slightly less unbearable, because I did fuck you in a heartbeat, and I'd do it again."

Christ. Did he actually say it? Has he finally lost his mind?

Eames. Chuckling silently, mouth parted enough to show the barest hint of tongue, wet and gleaming.

He did. Fuckfuckjesus_fuck_, he did.

Tongue. That goddamned _tongue_, peeking out just for the briefest of moments as Eames dampens his lips.

Arthur has had moments of his own, weak ones, private-as-his-job-allows _moments_ of wondering what that tongue would be like on a woman, on a man, thinking that surely Eames must have experienced the full range of the sexual spectrum in order to be so good at duplicating it. Moments. Eames, and his hands and kisses and slow-moving sensuality playing out before the backdrop of Arthur's mind. Lips parted, tongue lapping over a cock, curling around it, sweet pink mouth pursed down to the hilt and sucking whorishly, and Arthur _knows_, inherently as he knows water is wet, that he would be so, so good at it. So good.

He kisses him, both hands seizing in his hair, and Eames's laughter hums against his mouth.

A new compound, doing a trial run to see that it ran smoothly, which it _did_ until he woke up with his every thought rushing off his tongue instead of staying safely locked inside his mind. He must have done _something_ to piss Yusuf off somehow, because surely there's no other reason for this.

Pants, scrabbled open and torn down his legs so fast his die tumbles from one pocket and goes clattering onto the floor. He should collect it, along with his standards and scruples and tallies of future dry-cleaning costs, but he's desperate to have that wicked, cocksucking mouth on him, and it seems all he's capable of actually _doing_ is sputtering, "Need...use your mouth, just do it, I'm clean," which results in Eames lazily patting him on the thigh and going, "Of course you are, dear." Almost patronizing, as if wanting to be safe is _endearing_. And then Eames has his neat-pressed slacks pressed to the floor and his manicured hands easing Arthur's underwear down over his straining cock, and he goes and _licks_ him.

Just the sight of it, the tip of his cock running along the seam of those gorgeous, perfect lips, is enough to have Arthur forgiving him for that remark. Maybe even a few more just for good measure. This does not mean Arthur is naïve enough to utter the "Oh, _God,_" currently wheedling his vocal cords, because there are too many replies Eames could make to that sort of thing and Arthur wants to hear absolutely none of them.

He has a discreet container of lube, which doesn't seem out of the ordinary at all, even for Eames, though Arthur's knees betray his shock and buckle enough to send him tottering back against that worktable, narrowly missing one of Ariadne's models. It's a three-tiered frame of white card stock and somehow seems far more stable than his mind and body combined.

Eames is _everywhere_, sucking lewdly around him, squeezing various overtaxed parts of him in a practiced hand, wriggling a finger up inside him. Arthur's legs braced apart and his back arching, full and aching and fucking his throat and trying to get more of everything because it isn't _enough_.

"You...you..._fuck_." It's awful, Arthur reduced to spitting profanities and Eames still level-headed enough to chide him.

"You could at least treat me properly and use my name," he admonishes, and Arthur still doesn't know if Eames is his first name or last name of even his name at all—of course it isn't, the man's a professional forger, for God's sake—but he grits his teeth and curses around it anyway.

"Fuck._ Eames._"

And from that point on, there's no stopping him. Arthur gasps. He moans, he shudders, he commands, a litany of need that Eames obeys and ignores with no apparent rhyme or reason. "Suck—_more_, take it, just like that, do it—_that_, that with your tongueoh_fuck_, now bend your fingers—little...just a little more, likethat_fuck_likethat, _God_, don't stop, don't you _dare_ stop." Knuckles rubbing over the rim of him, that tight-stretched opening of his body, obscene and wonderful, and his entire being clenches and squirms around them with pleasure. "F-faster, damn it, _please_."

Eames's laughter rumbles up his spine. "There's a good boy." And _he_'s the condescending one?

Those fingers drawing out entirely, pushing back in, slickness against him and inside him and streaking his inner thighs, and Arthur is whining at a ceiling that vaults before his eyes even though he isn't in a dream. He can't pretend otherwise anymore. "Come on, come on..."

He doesn't stop there. Eames strokes him slowly, thumb pushing against the leaking slit of his cock as his tongue maps a trail up the join of his thigh and flickers into his navel. Arthur feels a new dimension of heat building low in his belly, just as he feels perspiration from Eames's brow against his middle as he's nip-sucking at the vulnerable skin there. Chin rasping his stomach, making Arthur's hands tighten on the edge of the table as his body spasms in delight, and then that languid mouth is swallowing him down _again_, as Eames withdraws his hand _again_ and bides his time until Arthur is pleading in a humiliating octave—_oh my God, stop teasing, just do it, put your fingers in me again, doitdoitcomethefuck**on**_—and Eames pities him enough to _listen_ for once. Wet and slippery and pumping back into him, rolling and flexing, his other hand holding Arthur steady in the small of his back.

Fucking into him as far as he can, and Arthur can't absorb the sensations fast enough, feeling his hand rubbing there, fingertips rubbing inside him. Naked. Legs spread wide, shoes and socks still on, standing in one inside-out trouser leg while the other loops his ankle right-side out. Naked, and Eames still fully clothed down there on his knees, making him shatter one neuron at a time, and he has approximately half a dozen neurons left by now.

As always, Eames is creative. He alternates between slurping filthily around Arthur's cock and murmuring dark, amused, breathless things into his skin when Arthur rocks his hips down to meet each thrust as steadily as he can. "That's it, sweetheart, move for me...tight little thing, aren't you? No surprise there." Winding him up so thoroughly and expertly Arthur can't even retort, only drip and shake and swear. Arms locked and trembling, hands gripping hard at the thickness of the table's edge, fingers up his ass and he's groaning out loud because he can't keep anything _in_. Not while Eames is screwing him hard on three capable fingers and sucking his dick, indeed, like his mouth was made for it. Cock nudging at the back of this throat as those fingers go nudging at the sensitive little spot inside him that lights over his nerve endings like an electrical charge and he pulses, throbs, cries out, and Eames _swallows_.

Yusuf hates him, he has to, and Arthur can't for the life of him figure out _why_, but he's nude against the edge of a table with Eames kneeling and taking him down over and over again as Arthur spills into his mouth, and _that's_ a worthy distraction if ever there was one.

"_Fuck_."

"So, was it good for you?" It takes a ridiculously short time for Eames to ask. Arthur can barely concentrate on fitting inhales and exhales together. "Mouth made for fellatio and all, I'd hate to disappoint." And Eames licks his lower lip—come-smudged, swollen, _indecent_ lip—and smirks, and Arthur drags him to his feet and kisses him until they're stained pinker still and Eames is pressed full-length along his front. It feels rather wonderful, but Arthur hopes he's at least least getting a few stains on Eames's clothes. It's the only payback he can think to exact at the moment, but he'll take it.

"You," he accuses, "are such an egotist."

Not fazed at all, Eames just draws a fingertip down between the cheeks of his ass, skimming there where he's still slick-messy and oversensitive, and practically goddamn _purrs_, "Well, was it?"

Arthur stares, because there's no way in the universe he's answering that and making Eames's ego even more unfathomable, and he reasons it's not as if the reply isn't written all over him already. "Yusuf must hate me," he says instead, vaguely pleased that he doesn't gasp or wriggle _too_ intensely as the tip of one still-roving finger just barely eases back into him. "Or he's _insane_. That." Waving a hand, sinking against Eames without meaning to, but not bothering to correct himself either. "_That_ is not safe. We can't use that when we're under."

"Oh, most definitely not," says Eames smoothly, and he _winks_, one of those horrifically hackneyed things that Arthur is sure only Eames can do not only successfully but _appealingly_. He's drawn back marginally, wiping his hand on Arthur's pocket square. Arthur doesn't have the energy to protest, which seems to be the theme of the hour.

"Rest assured, we won't," Eames adds, and kisses him once more with that exquisite mouth, deep and slow and dirty. "It's a commission for one of his clients who prefers extracting information more inelegantly. I told Yusuf you'd be delighted to sample it for him."


End file.
